


Recurring

by Typey



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Typey/pseuds/Typey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was left behind after the astrolabe? What echoes did Myka still hear?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recurring

_“I smell apples.”_

Startled awake from another one of the nightmares, Myka’s first reaction was to reach out for Helena. Helena who wasn’t there and hadn’t been at the Warehouse for months. Helena who was God knows where, but certainly not sharing a bed with Myka. Helena who made Myka complete but might never know it because Myka might never have another chance to look into her eyes and admit the truth.

Rolling onto her back, Myka stared at the ceiling and searched for the threads of her nightmare.

It always happened this way, this waking up despairing and grasping at the fleeting images her mind taunted her with: Helena’s longing gaze; a distance or barrier between them — oh, lord how absolutely clever her subconscious was, Myka sneered at herself; crackling, flashing lights; and a cryptic statement.

_“I smell apples.”_

Myka could never figure it out. In her dream, they were definitely inside, and the blue light wasn’t natural. There were no fruit stands, no trees — although since Helena’s departure, every time Myka thought of the scent of forest underbrush she wanted to cry — and no goddamned apples. Sighing deeply, Myka tried to get a hold of her internal dialogue and tried to stop searching for logic in the illogic of the dreaming mind.

Before Sykes, she and Helena had built a strong foundation for…for something. For the future. And Myka never acted. She was certain that the attraction was mutual in its reciprocity as well as the depth of its feeling. She was also certain that Helena had been waiting for Myka to say something first, to let Myka find her feet. And, God, had she needed to find her feet. Because when she was near Helena, when Helena was flirting with her, when Helena smiled at her, Myka still so often felt like that first time the grappler raised her into the sky, gripped surely around the waist by her foe, her target, her foil, her savior. Every other thought fled leaving only the echoing, “Oh, look I’m flying.”

And now every thought of Helena ended with the echoing:

_“I smell apples.”_

The absence of Helena upset her balance just as (even more than?) Helena’s entrance into her life had once caused upheaval.

Of the deepest regrets in her life, allowing Helena to leave without having heard Myka say out loud that she was deeply, irrevocably, and wondrously in love would haunt Myka. If she never had even one moment of pure understanding unburdened by caution with the brash, intelligent, playful and stunningly beautiful woman, Myka’s heart would ache every moment of every day, as it ached now in the middle of the night, fragments of seemingly half-remembered visions dancing behind a veil of sorrow and pride and whispered words she could hardly hear over the rushing of blood in her ears.

_“I smell apples.”_

But, of course, Myka hadn’t let Helena leave. Helena had disappeared, and the Regents wouldn’t talk. Mrs. Frederic wouldn’t talk. Helena hadn’t said anything to her, other than in her dreams.

_“I smell apples.”_


End file.
